


siege

by mikkal



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Hurt Noctis Lucis Caelum, Hurt/Comfort, POV Outsider, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: There's a little town with no name. Hardly noticeable in the grand scheme of things.Until they play host to Noctis and his friends.Until Niflheim comes to play.And, somehow, it's even more complicated than that.





	siege

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh, honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how long it took me to write this. I hate how slow of a writer I am.
> 
> This town is basically my ffvii town. All the names are from ffvii characters.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Let me know how you think!

Niflheim comes just before the sun begins to rise, appearing like ghosts riding on the early morning fog. They step through the darkness with creaks and clangs, coming to a halt in a perfect line outside a little no-name town, perfect silent little troopers blocking any escape routes out into the darkness.

The town, protected by flickering flood lights and the bravery of those who live within it, is not ready for Niffs to come knocking at their doors at three o’clock in the morning. One by one, the houses are stormed, human troopers not dressed in armor checking every corner, every closet, every attic and basement, looking for one thing.

Lieutenant Fuhito knocks on the door of a quaint little house in the middle, giving the occupants three seconds to answer before he kicks the door down like he did for the other six houses he checked. Just as he’s about to signal for one of his troopers to do the dirty work, the lock clicks and the door opens, revealing an middle aged woman with furrowed eyebrows and a frown set deep in her expression.

“Yes?” she asks quietly, expression going from confused to annoyed. “Can I help you?”

The lieutenant shoves a missive in her face silently, shouldering her out of the way as he enters her home without permission. She clutches at it in surprise, reads the first few words and skims the rest. Out of sight of the Niff, she scowls and very carefully doesn’t crumble the paper in a tight fist.

“This isn’t permission!” she snaps out, unafraid of what this man could do to her. “You can’t just waltz in here like you own the place!”

Fuhito smiles something glittering and cruel. “But I can, miss.” He indicates a back room for his troopers to search through. “You are possibly harboring fugitives. A loyal Niflheimr reported seeing them in the surrounding twenty-miles just last night. They were injured, and with no havens around the closest sanctuary is your little town.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t, do you?” He looks pointedly at the bloody towel and bowl of water left exposed when a trooper checked the bathroom. “I did say they were injured.”

She scowls, then shoves her hand in his face to shake down the edge of her sleeve and reveal bandages wrapped around two of her fingers. “My husband works protection,” she all but snarls. “I’m up early making him breakfast. Some daemon screeching distracted me and I sliced two of my fingers open. Give me a break.”

“There’s no one here, sir. No signs of anyone but the couple who lives here and a dog.”

Fuhito frowns. “Fine,” he says in frustration, then orders, “Check the rest of the houses then spread out to the woods. Maybe they died in a ditch like the rats they are.”

They stomp out of the house at his command. Fuhito lingers a bit longer, looking around the main room slowly. Satisfied that the troopers reported correctly, he dips his hat sardonically, plucks the missive from her hands, and leaves the house with the same arrogance he arrived with.

He leaves the door swinging open, letting in the cool early autumn air. The woman swears some unkindly things about him and his ancestors as she hurries to close it, clicking the lock and drawing the curtains on the window over the kitchen sink.

She hovers there for a moment, heart pounding in her chest, waiting for them to change their minds and turn back. When the seconds tick by into minutes and nothing happens, she sighs in relief. She lets the clock mark ten minutes before she deems it safe enough to carefully shove her dining table off the rug then waits to hear for footsteps outside the door. There’s nothing, no one heard the slight screech of wood on wood. She flips the rug up, revealing a hidden door in the floor, large with shiny hinges and a loop of metal for a handle.

She swings it up, letting it softly lean against the wall. Inside is a small cellar with wines and non-perishables, along with a few weapons and precious items that she and her husband would rather keep safe than anything else.

Along with those items, four people sit. Two of them injured, the other two exhausted and at their wit’s end.

“They’re gone,” she calls down softly. She winces when she realizes how obvious that is, but the prince’s advisor just smiles tiredly up at her.

“You have my thanks, Mrs. Crescent,” he says with a low, raspy voice.

“Lucrecia,” she insists for the seventh time since they stumbled into town. “Come on, let’s get you out of there. This can’t be good for their injuries.”

The blonde one, Prompto, is resting against the shoulder of the prince’s Shield, half-out of it and sweating. He moans in pain, long and drawn out, when the Shield carefully shakes his shoulder. Prompto is only able to stumble to his feet with the help of the Shield, leaning on him as he hobbles to the bottom of the ladder. The Shield, Gladio, keeps his hands on the smaller man’s waist as Lucrecia leans over the edge of the cellar to help Prompto up to the main part of the house.

He stumbles into her, apologizing breathlessly. She shushes him, sliding a hand down his back, and helps him back to the bedroom. She gets him situated then rushes back to the cellar, heart clenching when she realizes the advisor, Ignis, and the prince haven’t moved from their spot. Gladio hovers over them, hands out and moving through the air uselessly.  
  
The prince sits curled up in Ignis’ lap, face tucked into the crook of his neck and his arms wrapped around his own middle in a mockery of a hug. He shivers and jerks in pain, face drenched in sweat and tears, hair slicked and curling around his jaw.

“Noct,” Ignis presses to his temple. “Noct, it’s much more comfortable up stairs.” The prince whines, pressing closer. Ignis looks pained. “I know. I know. But I promise, it is more comfortable in a bed. It’ll only hurt for a little bit.” It looks like it hurts him to say that.

It had been easier getting the prince down to the cellar than it turns out to be getting him back up. He barely has any strength to move, let alone climb a ladder. And, unfortunately, said ladder isn’t big enough for two people side by side. Gladio and Ignis support him on either side until they get the prince to the bottom of the ladder, then Gladio climbs up to be next to Lucrecia. With all three of them, they manage to get the prince back in the main house. But it comes at a price—his face paling even further, blood blossoming on the bandages around his torso and stomach, and a blood curdling glaze to his eyes as his cheeks flush an unhealthy pink.

Lucrecia is gently shuffled to the side as Ignis scrambles up the ladder himself and the two older men more or less carry their prince to bed. Prompto is still awake, eyes half lidded, shuddering in his own pain. She tsks. And checks the bandages around his hip and upper thigh, relieved when there’s no red on white.

When the prince is laid out next to him, Prompto carefully shifts onto his good side to curl against his friend. It’s an adorable sight—their arms looped together, the prince’s fingers wrapped around Prompto’s wrist in a light grip—only soured by the injuries and the hiding and the slow rise of sickness emanating from the prince.

Lucrecia presses a blanket around Ignis as the man tries to start unraveling the bloody bandages around his prince, and firmly sits him on the cot Gladio pulled from the closet. Gladio gets a glare and a pointed look towards the recliner in the living room. He shoves it in close to the bed on the side Prompto lays and sits on it half-reluctantly, but wholly grateful, practically melting into the cushion. Ignis is not so compliant. He weakly struggles against her, half-blinded by the need for sleep and the need to help his prince

“Shush,” she says. He protests. “No, shush. Let me take care of it.” She flips the edge of the blanket over his head, obscuring his face. He makes an indignant noise like an annoyed puppy. “Sit here. I’ll change his Highness’ bandages. Then I’ll finish making breakfast.”

She does change his bandages, hissing at the sight of swollen and inflamed skin and the dark lines tracing the veins away from the wounds. Lucrecia knew he’d been poisoned, but if it’s spreading this fast, it’s worse than she thought. Ignis watches her warily. No matter how much fragile trust he holds for her to hide them, obviously he does not have that same trust when her sole attention is on His Highness.

The prince moans softly, head lolling on the pillow. She glances up and nearly startles at the sight of him watching her through half-lidded eyes. The woman places a careful hand on his forehead, pushing back his sweaty bangs. He looks so much younger than she expected.

“It’s all right,” she whispers. Prompto breathes lightly and Gladio snores. Ignis slumps dangerously forward only to jerk back up awake. “Everything’s all right...Noctis.” She pauses, waiting to be reprimanded for using the prince’s given name without any honorifics, but it never comes. The prince just huffs out a strained noise and closes his eyes again.

She leaves them there, heart both high in her throat and sinking low in her stomach.

Her husband comes home to her half-heartedly finishing breakfast. He sets his gun on a high shelf and sheds his coat onto the hook. Vincent takes one look at her face and grimaces.

“That bad?”

Lucrecia nods. “It’s not good at all, Vince. The prince is real bad off.”

“I stopped by Fair’s house on the way back into town,” he says, “left Red there, but got this—.” He pulls out a dusty, grimy antidote bottle with weakly glowing contents that splash too much to be full. “Strife said it was probably out of date, but out of date is better than nothing.”

She eyes it dubiously. He wiggles it. She sighs and takes it. But before she can go administer it, Vincent snaps out to tug on her wrist gently, twisting her hand slightly to reveal the lines of her bandaged covered fingers.

“The dropship scared me when I had a knife in my hand,” she admits truthfully. She still feels a bit of smug triumph for successfully lying to the Niflheimr lieutenant. Her husband sighs fondly, shaking his head, and kisses her fingers lightly. She sort of tickles his nose in response, making him get all scrunched face.

Vincent takes over breakfast, putting on the finishing touches, as she goes to the bed room. Ignis migrated from the cot to the floor, closer to the prince’s—Noctis, now, she guesses—side. Gladio’s slumped over the edge of the chair, arm draped over to touch Prompto’s back. She steps over the advisor, clicking her tongue at him. Noctis looks worse than just a few minute ago, his face even paler now, his face slick with sweat, eyelashes clumped together as tears tickle from his closed eyes.

His forehead burns like hot coals. She loathes to wake him, and normally she wouldn’t. An antidote works just as well if poured on the wound itself, but considering it’s expired and only a small dose of what is normal, she’d rather get it into his system completely. And he’s magic. Practically magic itself. If a soured potion is going work on anyone, it’s going to work on Noctis Lucis Caelum.

He wakes instantly once she puts even a little pressure on his forehead. Disoriented and panicked, he tries to fight her, making distressed noises in the back of his throat. Lucrecia murmurs soothing words to him, carding her fingers through his hair over and over again until he remembers where he is and calms. He lays back further into the pillows, panting, his eyes glazing over as the adrenaline fades.

Noctis doesn’t fight her when she tips the edge of the bottle against his bottom lip. A noise, curious and surprise, escapes him at the first taste, and then he’s drinking the antidote down greedily, expression twisting into something she can’t read.

She puts the bottle in the trash. The prince falls asleep, uneasy and not at all restful. She stands at the doorway for a moment, surveying these boys who would be around the same age as her son if he was still alive. They’re much too young to be without a home, too young to be the center of a war, too young to be hunted down like foxes during a hunt, too innocent for these burdens.

And she be damned if she doesn’t help them.

* * *

The Niflheim company makes their home on the outskirts of the town, circling them like birds of prey on a rabbit’s burrow. There were no Lucians in the woods, no trail tracks leading away from town. They have to be hidden away in someone’s house. They just have to.

It’d be easier to tell if everyone didn’t act so normal.

Lucrecia smiles as Elena winks and heads to the next house, leaving behind a basket full of warm, fresh baked breads, muffins, a few pastries, and fruit jams, a roll of bandages, and a message from the radio tower that their request for relief when through to the next relay.

She nods to the soldier makes rounds on the street, willing her heart to stop pounding. He eyes her suspiciously, flickering to follow Elena’s path as she stops at a few more houses to leave baskets with them as well. Those baskets don’t have as much in them, just a single jar of jam and a few muffins, but they’re useful to bring attention away from Lucrecia and her husband. They do their job well, as the soldier sniffs and keeps walking, head swiveling this way and that, ignoring the Crescent’s house perfectly.

The door is closed with her hip, cutting off any natural light wanting to sneak through into the house. The curtains are still drawn, the air stifling with sickness that just won’t leave the prince. Vincent is gone again. As much as he wanted to stay, it wouldn’t end well if suddenly stopped going to his rotation in the protection squad.

Gladio looks up from the book he’s flipping through at the bookcase, his expression beseeching and hopeful. She nods and he slumps in relief.

“That’s the best damn news I’ve heard all day,” he says. He goes to move, then hesitates. She dismisses him with a wave, watching as he goes into the bedroom to no doubt tell Ignis the message Vincent sent yesterday night, just before Niflheim came, made it through the first relay.

Lucrecia cracks open a few of those breads, pops open a jar of raspberry jam, and makes something light for the men who seem to rather put the others before themselves. It’d be endearing if it weren’t so frustrating.

Ignis and Gladio have their heads bowed together, sitting on the cot so close their thighs brush and their arms have nowhere to go but tangled up with one another. The blanket still sits wrapped around Ignis’ shoulders even though it’s been a day and a half now. He’s running colder than he should, and it’s concerning, but he won’t let Lucrecia take a look. Hopefully, it can be chalked up to the strange power the three of them share that connects to the prince.

Prompto’s awake now, blinking blearily at the ceiling. On his back, but still touching Noctis in some way, he doesn’t look like he has enough energy to sit up. Lucrecia doesn’t mind being ignored by the advisor and Shield, she can hear the words well enough to know they’re talking about plans and how long it will take the message to get to Meldacio, so she shoves the tray of bread and water and medication on the bedside table to attend to Prompto.

His bandages have been changed already. He smiles something small and tired at her, eyes bright in the darkness. It doesn’t look right on his face, like it’s supposed to be much bigger, with more sunshine. “Iggy helped,” he rasps out. They both look over to see the other men watching them warily until they see Prompto smiling. Something relaxes around them, tension leaving their shoulders. Only by a margin, though, after all their prince remains sick.

“Let’s get you up, hm?” She arranges the pillows and fluffs them before helping him sit up right. “Elena is the best baker in town. And Strife makes amazing jam. Trust me.”

“Oh, I do, Mrs. Crescent.”

She has to swallow thickly at the weight that suddenly brings down her shoulders. Despite the lightness in his tone, the words are heavier than she thinks she can bear. She doesn’t even have the heart to correct her name like she did Ignis (multiple times).

He uses one hand to eat. Noctis fingers still wrapped around his wrist, tighter now than before. The prince hasn’t gotten any better since they arrived despite the antidote, but he hasn’t actually gotten much worse than his fever spiking another degree between when she checked this last night and again this morning at dawn. The other men come closer, Ignis sitting next to Prompto to wrap an arm around his shoulders and Gladio to sit at Noctis’ feet with one hand settled on his covered knee. They share the bread, Ignis making humming noises that have Prompto and Gladio grinning fondly.

“I’m glad to see you feeling better,” Lucrecia says after a while.

Prompto nods vigorously. “Me too, thought I was a goner for sure.” He directs his smile up at Ignis when the man tightens his arm. “Did you give me a potion? I kinda feel like you did. I got that jittery feeling. I thought we were out?”

Ignis’ lips twitch into a frown. “We are,” he says slowly. “At most, Mrs. Crescent provided a small amount of antidote for Noctis the other night but that’s...it.”

Almost absently, she corrects him with “Lucrecia” but she’s distracted by all three men’s gazes zeroing in on where Noctis touches Prompto’s bare skin. It’s hard to tell much in the dim haze of light coming from the main room through the door, so she flicks on a light. Instantly it’s obvious something’s terribly wrong. Noctis’ skin is ashen grey, his cheeks hollowed, his chest barely moving. He breathes through his mouth, whistling and wheezing, lips cracking with every inhale and exhale. His face is dangerously dry, no longer sweating despite the heart still emanating from him.

Gladio swears. Ignis leaps to his feet. Prompto drops his bread from shaking fingers. The advisor automatically goes to where Noctis is touching his friend, swearing colorfully once he feels whatever it is on their skin. Prompto tries to pull his hand away, but Noctis clings to him with surprising strength.

“Why didn’t you notice!” Gladio all but shouts at Ignis.

He scowls at the Shield. “There was nothing to notice,” he practically snarls back. Lucrecia resists the urge back away from the man who looks more wolf than not at the moment. “He wasn’t like this when I checked on him.”

“I didn’t feel better until you were changing my bandages,” Prompto whispers, staring at where they join in horror. “That was after you checked on him. He was waiting,” he realizes in despair.

She has no idea what’s going on. At all. But she helps anyway. It’s not that hard to tell that the whole touching thing needs to stop. She goes for Noctis’ fingers, curling them one by one away from Prompto’s wrist. The skin is reddened underneath. Prompto doesn’t wait to be completely free before he yanks away, nearly falling off the bed if it weren’t for Ignis bracing him. The advisor helps him to the cot, wrapping the blonde in his body-warmed blanket. Prompto clutches it around him tightly, eyes wide as dinner plates.

“How? Why?” he demands.

Noctis whines in the back of his throat, thrashing in the hold Gladio’s gathered him in. His eyes are half-open. Lucrecia’s breath stops in her chest when she catches sight of blazing violet. No longer are his eyes blue, the color of storm clouds and the horizon just before the dawn. No, they’re violent and powerful and something so breathtaking it can’t be human.

“No, Noct,” Gladio says both gentle and rough. “You can’t.”

He cries out, reaching over the sheets for Prompto only for the blonde to be both too far away and cringing to put even more distance between them. He claws at the blanket weakly.

Ignis cups his face in both hands, fingers splayed along his jaw and thumbs on his cheekbones. “No, Noct,” he echoes. “You’ll only hurt yourself more.” Noctis whines again. “Stop, please.”

His cracking lips part, tongue darting out to wet the ineffectively. “Need,” he breathes, “n-need to heal him.” There’s barely a sound to his voice. “I can...I can—We both don’t need to be hurt. I can heal him.”

Soft green fizzles around where Ignis is touching Noctis. Gradually, Noctis’ continued words become incomprehensible, slurring together in one big mush, and he stops struggling against Gladio so much. Soon after, he drifts off to either sleep or unconsciousness, going limp in his Shield’s arms.

In the silence that follows, only Gladio can voice the correct word to sum it all up.

“Shit.”

* * *

Lucrecia wills herself to stop shaking. Her heart pounding too fast to register. She feels like a coward when she flees the room after Noctis passes out and is settled down. Her knuckles pull white as she clutches the edges of the sink, bowing her head over it while she tries to catch her breath.

Magic...She’s not accustomed to magic. Sure, yeah, there’s potions and Phoenix Downs and havens and sanctuaries. Strife is scarily handy with potion making and Aeris has always been a little more intuned than normal with the world. But that’s not magic, not like this. That’s not the rumors that come filtering from Insomnia or Tenebrae. That’s not the Crystal’s King or the Oracle.

Seeing his Highness’ eyes—no, he’s His Majesty now, isn’t he? The King of Lucis even though there’s no Lucis to be king of technically. She’ll always count herself as Lucian, in the end.

But seeing him. Seeing his magic. It made her realize how very small she is. And, the, worst part, is that was probably just a tiny fraction, a raindrop in the ocean, of what he’s capable of.

Footsteps sound behind her. Gladio. Ignis is still in the room, fussing over his Majesty and trying to sooth Prompto. Gladio looks almost apologetic when she turns around, his expression soft around the pinches at his eyes and mouth. She knows he can’t be that much older than the prince—king—but now, he looks like he’s lived half a lifetime of hardships.

“What was that?” she demands. She has no real right to demand something like that from the royal retinue, but she knows, these men are good people and they will tell her. She’s taking advantage of that.

Gladio grimaces. “That...was his Majesty,” his mouth forms awkwardly around the title, “taking the magic of the antidote and using it to heal Prompto instead.” He shuffles to the dining table, sitting heavily in a worn chair with a sigh. It squeaks under his weight. “We should’ve expected this,” he says partially to her, partially to himself.

Lucrecia needs something to do. She bustles around to make tea—Gods, she’s going to have to go to the shop soon, they weren’t prepared to house four other people so suddenly. “Does it happen often?”

“More often than we’d like.” He drags a hand over his face. “Noct—his Majesty.” He winces. “...Noct has a tendency to put other people first even when he shouldn’t risk it. Prompto wasn’t as bad off, he would’ve gotten better on his own.” He knuckles his forehead, leaning to rest on his fist. “And now….Noct’ll die if relief doesn’t come.”

She fumbles with the loose leaves of tea, dropping the spoon full in the sink. She stares down at it in something like despair, maybe horror, a little bit of fear. “He can’t,” she whispers.

“He’ll try his damnedest not to, I’ll tell you that. The kid’s stronger than anyone I’ve seen. But that doesn’t always mean anything.”

Lucrecia turns back, eyeing him. “How long have you known him?”

Gladio seems surprised by the question. “Feels like my entire life,” he admits after a moment. “But I wasn’t officially assigned as his Shield until he was about fourteen, fifteen, when I joined the Crownsguard. We didn’t get along when we were kids.” He grins wrly.

She can’t help but smile back, as weak as it is. “How old are you?”

Again, surprised by the question. “Twenty-three, ma’am,” he says slowly, reluctantly.

She presses her fingers against her cheek, staring at him in horror. He shifts awardly in his seat, averting his eyes from her, cheeks staining red.

“Twenty-three,” she repeats in a whisper. “Oh, Gods. Twenty-three? How old are the rest of you?”

He still won’t look at her. “Ignis is twenty-two. Noctis just turned twenty-one, Prompto’s still twenty.”

Her knees buckle. She catches herself from behind on the edge of the counter. Twenties. They’re in the their twenties! Early twenties, even. If her son was still alive he’d be in his early thirties. She thought they’d be so much older than they are. Her son would have a good decade on Gladio himself.

Lucrecia covers her face with a hand, breathing in deep. In this moment, her mother would say something of ‘who could contend the Gods? If these are their warriors, then we need to help them, not hinder them.’ And as much as she wants to fight and rage against it. As much as she wants to wrap these boys up in blankets and give them hot drinks and protect them from the horrors of the world, she knows she has no right to. They have a purpose far greater than anyone can comprehend. Even if she doesn’t know she doesn’t the full extent of it, she does know that.

They're not her children. Hell, they’re not even children. But—

Ignis appears to go into the bathroom, coming out with a bowl and wash cloth in hand. His expression is grim, lips twisted down, but he nods when he realizes Gladio and Lucrecia are watching him.

“He’s stable,” is all he says. Everything he doesn’t say is screaming loud in implication. Noctis won’t last very long without help.

“I can go,” Gladio offers gruffly. “Pack up a bag. If I push I could make it to some phone service before the relays make it through.”

Lucrecia shakes her head, clutching her hands close to her chest. “It’s a three day trip to Meldacio on foot, a two day trip for phone service. The relay should make it in the morning. You’d be making a trip His Majesty can’t afford for you make.”

Gladio sags in his seat, swearing quietly. Ignis clutches the bowl so tight his knuckles pale, his lips pinched into a thin line. The advisor disappears back into the bedroom, leaving tension behind to grow and swell.

“I should go to the market,” she says, voice too loud in the quiet. Gladio gives her a sympathetic look before she does what cowards do, and runs away.

* * *

When she comes back, the sun’s already setting and she’s got Zack in tow chatting her ear off. She’s grateful for the company, and the excuse he gives her to buy the extra food she needs without looking suspicious, and she’s even more thankful when she catches sight of more soldiers at the end of the street than normal.

Lucrecia clicks on the light—disgusted that she has to leave the four men in the almost-dark—and ushers Zack inside. Ignis and Gladio traded at some point, putting Ignis at the dining table and Gladio in the bedroom. Prompto’s made his way out, still wrapped in the blanket the advisor had wrapped around him and paging through a trashy romance novel that Vincent only half-liked but still couldn’t put down.

Prompto jumps a foot in the air when Zack lets out a low whistle, there’s no mistaking the heavy and sour air permeating the whole house—someone’s dying, painfully and slowly.

She’s halfway through closing the door before the shrieks and wails start up. Lucrecia shoves her basket on the counter and lunges through the door onto the stoop. Zack comes up behind her. Ignis and Prompto scramble to the curtain covered window, peering through carefully out to the growing chaos.

One of the soldiers, a big burly thing, drags Marleen out of the house by her hair. She screams and thrashes with all the righteous fury one eleven year old body can contain. Cloud throws himself out after her, only to tumble to the ground. It’s only then that the soldier that kicked him in the back of the knee stomps out of the house after him. More soldiers swarm into the house, guns drawn and shouting.

Cloud struggles to push himself up, but the Niff digs his heel between his shoulder blades and shoves him back down.

“You’ve had your chance,” Fuhito announces to the furious onlookers. “Two days you’ve harbored fugitives. Two days you’ve put your loyalty to a dead kingdom than to the rightful rulers of this land. If one of you does not give the prince and his retinue up by tomorrow night, we will burn this town to the ground and let the daemons have you.”

A cold fury settles in Lucrecia’s chest. Marleen continues screaming, twisting violently in an attempt to nail the bastard somewhere tender. Prompto makes a noise of distress behind them and tries to shove himself out of the house, only for Zack to block him with an arm across his chest before he can get too far.

“No,” he hisses. “Stay here.”

Ignis takes his shoulder and draws him back into the shadows. Lucrecia steps to the side to let Zack storm out, shouting at the soldiers with the stupid kind of bravery only young people have. She stays near the door, shoulder against the frame to block any of the other men from trying to leave. She itches to grab the shotgun sitting in the cabinet full of bowls and plates, but she holds her herself tight. Drawing attention to her and her own isn’t a good idea, of course. Other people are standing around their doors and windows just like her, unable to act despite the want.

Zack has no qualms, he shoves the soldier keeping Cloud down and helps his friend up carefully, Marleen twists enough to bring her heel down hard against the Niff’s instep. It’s not enough to cause the pain she probably wants, but it does get him to move. She shoves back, and sinks her teeth into the exposed flesh of his wrist. He yelps, letting her go even more. He goes to hit her, but Zack there to shove him away as well. He doesn’t go for violence, for fists or kicks, but he manages to draw Cloud and Marleen away from the Niffs anyway.

Lucrecia bites the inside of her cheek as the men march out of their little house, the sounds of glass shattering loud enough to hear from her spot. They knock the door so hard it comes off its hinges, not that it actually matters since they had splintered it in their forceful entering.

“Tomorrow night,” Fuhito says again. “Until then, we will search each and every one of your houses. We’ll see how you like having a Lucian in town when he’s the reason your homes are invaded and destroyed.”

With that, he turns heel and flounces away like a pompous bastard. The neighbors surge to Cloud and Marleen’s sides, the murmuring and question rolling into a wave of panic and anger. Yet, there’s not a single world about giving up his Majesty or his retinue. Lucrecia swallows her smile and buries her pride. They talk of how to fix up Cloud’s house and what to do about the next one when the soldiers come back, but there’s nothing about Lucrecia or Vincent or their guests.

Elena catches her eye from over heads and nods grimly. She returns the gesture. Without much attention on her, she goes back into her house where Prompto is glued to a very careful sliver of light through the window and Ignis paces in circles around the couch. Gladio’s appeared at the bedroom doorway, arms crossed and looking worried.

“Do we have anything to concern ourselves with?” Ignis asks quietly.

Lucrecia shakes her head. “No one is going to give you up,” she replies softly. Prompto sags against the wall, letting the curtain fall close. “We’ll hold out until tomorrow night. And when the soldiers come, we’ll hold out against them. Hopefully we can stall for time for your relief to show up and give us some more experienced fighters.”

Ignis sighs, but it’s Gladio who says, “We can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not. We’re offering,” she says firmly. “We would die for our king.” All three of them wince. “Yeah, I got you. I’ve figured it out enough to know his Majesty probably wouldn’t be happy with it. But it’s the truth. He is our King. We believe that he will save us.”

Prompto scrubs at his mouth, looking like he wants to say something, but refrains. Eventually he says, “We can’t let you guys fight yourselves. We’re experienced enough.” He gazes drifts to Gladio then up over his shoulder into the darkness of the bedroom. He shakes his head. “I’m experienced enough. I can help.”

“No,” Ignis says immediately. “You’re not fighting alone. You’re not even fully healed.”

Gladio steps further into the living room. “Either we all fight or no one fights. Since Noct can’t fight, that means no body’s going.”

The men stare and size each other up. Prompto’s expression says he wants to argue, but the squareness of Gladio’s shoulders says that he won’t take it lying down. Ignis looks just as frustrated, torn between wanting to fight and staying in the shadows with Noctis still injured. No one sees or hears the movement from the bedroom. Lucrecia almost sees it too late.

The King nearly falls to his knees if not for Lucrecia catching him. He clings to her with all the strength of a newborn kitten, legs quaking and hands trembling. He gasps when she wraps her arms around him, hefting him up, drawing the attention of his retinue. Noctis is too warm to the touch, sweat soaking through his shirt and curling his hair. She’ll have to bring up giving him a bath soon, it can’t be too comfortable like this and the cool water should help. For now though—

“Noct!” Ignis scolds, immediately running up to take some of his weight if not all. “What are you doing?”

It takes him a few tries, panting out a couple soundless words before he finally finds them. “Loud,” he whispers, his voice raspy like a breeze through some dead leaves. He winces. “You’re...loud.”

“That doesn’t mean you can get out of bed,” Ignis says, still in scolding mode. “What were you thinking.” Noctis opens his mouth to reply, but Ignis is already shaking his head. “No, don’t.”

Noctis ignores him. “Have a...idea,” he forces out around his struggling breaths. His knees buckle even more. Lucrecia scrambles to take his weight, having been eased into a false sense of security with Ignis holding most of him. “...Rocks…”

“‘Rocks?’” Prompto repeats dubiously. “Buddy, we need to get you back to bed. I don’t think attempting to stone them to death is a good idea.” His chin trembles as he speaks, eyes wide as they stay locked on his friend.

Noctis shakes his head, yanking into a violent sway that has Lucrecia yelping and Ignis grunting as they’re pushed and pulled into motion. Gladio gently shuffles her away to take Noctis’ other side. He tugs to get him in the direction of the bed. Noctis plants his feet the best he can and refuses to move. Gladio could force him to go, but he seems reluctant.

“Rocks,” he says again firmly, turning pleading, fever bright eyes onto Ignis. “Wall. I can….” He sucks in breaths desperately. “I build...wall.”

Ignis looks at him closely, confused, before a realization dawns on his expression that slowly twists to horror. “No. Not at all,” he says quickly. “I won’t let you.” Noctis pats him on the shoulder almost comfortingly, clumsily. “It’s suicide. You can’t even be sure it will work.”

“Gotta...try,” Noctis gasps. “Can’t….Can’t let p-people….people die...for me.” He leans heavier and heavier on his advisor. “Iggy…”

Lucrecia presses her knuckles against her mouth. “What is he talking about?”

Ignis looks up at her, then away from them all towards the curtain covered window. “He’s talking about the wall.” Gladio swears quietly when it hits him. “The Old Wall was anchored by the stone statues of the Kings and Queens of Old,” he explains, still looking away. “The Wall that was around Insomnia herself was anchored by the eight points of the physical stone wall with King Regis being a ninth focal point of magic.”

Prompto looks how she feels—lost, confused, scared, and slowly understanding what the King is offering. He swallows thickly. She braces herself on the back of the couch.

“Noctis, you can’t,” Ignis says quietly, turning back to their monarch. Noctis lists in their grip, eyes half-lidded. The collar of his shirt hangs loose, revealing the discolored lines that have made it into view. The poison’s hit his heart, pumping through his circulatory system. “You could barely heal Prompto even with a boost from the antidote. You can’t make and maintain a wall until the cavalry comes. You’ll die.”

“Have to...try.”

“If we don’t help him, he’s just going to get himself killed trying to do it alone,” Gladio murmurs.

“I’m not going to help him kill himself,” Ignis snaps, expression open vulnerability and fear. “You can’t, Noct,” he pleads to his friend.

Noctis blinks at him slowly, a wobbly half-smile curling the corner of his mouth. “Please, Iggy.”

Ignis visibly hesitates, then slumps, shoulders sagging. He looks up, catching Prompto’s eyes. The blonde is openly crying, but trying so hard to scrub the tears away in attempt to look composed. Gladio’s lips are pulled into a deep scowl, his expression pained.

Noctis doubles over sharply, retching. It’s so sudden, Ignis and Gladio aren’t prepared for it. He falls to his knees, bracing himself with one hand while the other scrabbles at his throat. He coughs and retches, tears dripping off the tip of his nose. Blood splatters the faded hardwood floors.

He’s not going to last much longer like this, let alone trying to sustain a defensive barrier around a whole town. And yet, he’s shoving himself back to his feet, staggering and paling even further. She doubts he could pale anymore, he proves her wrong by resembling a ghost more than a living being.

Noctis reaches up with a shaking hand, clinging to the front of Ignis’ shirt. Crimson stains his chin, his eyes are bloodshot. He looks like he’s already dead. “Please,” he requests one more time, glancing around at all of them. “I need—I have to. Please.”

* * *

They move quickly.

Ignis takes Noctis into the bathroom to clean him up. Gladio and Prompto are left back in the house as Lucrecia goes to Zack’s house, using her check up on Marleen and Cloud to tell them the plan.

Cloud agrees to make a potion and an antidote. It won’t do much, but it will hopefully do something to keep Noctis holding on. Zack and Marleen are tasked with spreading the word: anyone who lives on the outskirts of town need to move to somewhere inward to put less of a strain on Noctis’ magic, anyone who’s willing to needs to distract the soldiers for Noctis to bury the stones.

Why they need to be buried? She has no idea. Maybe to keep them from being found so quickly if Niflheim manages to figure out what’s going on?

Vincent comes home while she’s gone. He’s leaning against the counter when she comes home, head bent with Gladio’s as they come up with something. His shoulders are tense and he looks unhappy.

“They look like they’re getting ready for war,” Vincent tells them. “I suspect they know none of us are going to give up the king. I don’t think we have until tomorrow night before they start something.”

Prompto is sitting on the counter, inspecting his leg. “If the relay made it through, then the calvary should be here soon, right?”

Lucrecia nods. “Tomorrow at the earliest, the day after the latest. It’ll be over soon.” Either way, goes unsaid.

Marleen shows up almost two hours later, a basket half her size in hand. “Elena let me help!” she chirps. There’s no soldiers on the streets anymore, but they’re not taking any chances. “I’ve got bread and jam.”

Vincent ushers her in. She gives him a cookie he solemnly takes to much on and passes the basket off to Lucrecia. There’s no bread and jam this time. A potion, an antidote, and twelve smooth, almost oval rocks. The bottles are partially filled, barely two mouthfuls.

“They’ll do something,” Lucrecia says dubiously. “I don’t how much, but it’ll be something.”

Prompto snatches them from her hands and dashes to the bedroom where king and advisor had relocated. Lucrecia turns to her husband and Marleen, telling them to get everyone ready. Whether Noctis is actually well enough or not, he’s going to make that wall and there’s nothing they can do about it.

The sounds of fighting already start up before Noctis walks out of the room, helped by Prompto and Ignis. It doesn’t look like the potions did anything physically, but the fact he’s walking a bit better means something. They pulled his hair back out of his face into a little bun and changed his shirt into red tank top.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Noctis nods determinedly. It could kill you, she wants to say. It will kill you, if the way it looks like all three of them are already mourning means anything. They don’t seem like the type of men to give up so easily, but there must be something about this that shows no other way.

They walk out of the house to screaming and gunshots. Between the buildings, Zack is visible launching himself at a soldier, taking them down with a wild swing to the chest. Almost everyone’s fighting. A few men and women stay with the children in the town center, all looking like they would rather be fighting as well. One child grips a stick with all their might.

Noctis gasps and whines as they shuffle to the fist point. Lucrecia stands guard, pistol borrowed from Prompto on her hip and her own sword in hand. Prompto stands on the other side, duel wielding some fancy looking guns. Gladio finishes up the triangle of a guard with a terrifying looking claymore. Ignis helps Noctis kneel down, helps him dig the tiny hole in the packed dirt, helps him cup one of the rocks in both hands.

The king curls over his hands, eyes closed, mouth moving in silent words. A spell? A prayer? Is he swearing at the Astrals? Don’t know, but it causes the rock to gain a slight purple sheen. He buries it clumsily. He leans forward heavily for a moment, taking a deep breath through his mouth and exhaling sharply through his nose.

And they go to the next point.

He manages three more before blood trickles from his nose, drooling over his lips to drip off his chin. Two more before Ignis is the only thing holding him up. Six in total. The seventh one puts him down on his knees, unable to get up, unable to help Ignis with the weight. Blood comes both nostrils now, leaks from his left ear to stain his neck and his jaw when he tilts his head forward. One arm flops like a puppet with its strings cut, one eye loses the battle to that violent, startling violet. Discolored lines crawl up past the collar of his tank top, staining his neck and shoulders.

Gladio throws his claymore to the side, it disappears in a burst of blue crystals, and he gathers his king up gently into his arms. Noctis whines in the back of his throat, eyes unfocused as they stare up the sky.

“You can stop,” Lucrecia whispers around the lump in her throat. She can’t stop her own tears from wetting her cheeks. “Your Majesty.” She chokes around the words. “Noctis, you can stop. No one here will blame you.”

Noctis’ head lolls as he tries to look at her. All Gladio has to do is heft him up and his head is rolling the other way to rest against his Shield’s bicep. Twenty-one, she reminds herself. A grown man. And yet, he looks so young, so small.

Ignis steps forward, a small towel he swiped from the linen closet in hand. It’s been dampened from a water bottle; it does very little when he wipes it over the king’s face. The blood smears grotesquely over his skin, like someone dragged their sleeve through wet ink. Prompto keeps his gaze resolutely to the distance, on look out and also unable to bear seeing his friend like this.

“Please,” Noctis breathes.

They could pretend to misunderstand him. They could whisk him away back to the Crescent home, bundle him up and hide him away until relief comes. If he lives through that, he’ll never forgive them.

If he dies through this, they’ll never forgive themselves.

Ignis and Gladio exchange somber looks. Prompto sniffles. Then Gladio walks to the next point, back straight and shoulders squared. Ignis digs the eighth hole. He places the stone in Noctis’ limp hands, cups his hands around the king’s dirt stained fingers, and closes his eyes as Noctis mouths the words of whatever magic he’s using. And there goes the eighth stone.

The ninth stone. The tenth.

The eleventh stone gains its purple sheen and Noctis chokes on air. He goes rigid in his Shield’s hold, body tense and twitching. His wrists curl, fingers jerk randomly. His left foot turns inward, his right flexes and kicks down. His head falls back, tendons standing in stark relief on his neck. The corner of his mouth spasms sporadically, his eyelashes flutter rapidly. Gladio can only just hold on as his king seizes in his very arms.

It lasts a full minute.

She holds her breath as he goes limp, breathing harshly, eyes half-lidded. Another minute passes, then two, then three. A full seven minutes before his breaths hitch and his whole body shudders. Ignis grips one of his wrists between his fingers, tracking his pulse despite the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Prompto’s own chest heaves with sobs every now and then. He still refuses to look. Noctis opens his eyes and they’ve gone full violet, shimmering with a storm of power.

Noctis’ face muscle are slow to move, but eventually he’s able to force out that dreaded word: “Please.” It doesn’t matter that his voice fails him halfway through, leaving no sound to the tail end. It doesn’t matter. Because it’s too late to back out now. King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, may he rest in peace.

They bury the twelfth stone. Noctis’ hand slowly creeps to the necklace around his neck, clinging to it tightly. He closes his violent eyes, breathes out gustily. It splatters blood on his chin, crimson dots the underside of Gladio’s jaw. The Shield flinches, expression twisting. All at once, his body goes limp, head falling back, hand falling away from his necklace to dangle freely towards the ground. His fingers are dark, stained with dirt and blood. His chest slows and seemingly stops.

Prompto cries out, lunging forward. Ignis snatches Noctis’ wrist up again and holds his breath as they all wait, silent and unmoving. It feels like hours pass before he sighs in relief.

“He’s alive,” he says out loud. It’s not enough. “We need to get him back to the house.”

Lucrecia and Prompto put two fingers to their mouths and whistle shrilly. The people in the town center hear it, and there’s a responding whistle that travels to the groups fighting. Distant whistles pick up. A warning cry. Hurry home before it’s too late. Someone roars a battle cry and the sounds of battle cut in half.

The little mound of fresh dirt over the rock just buried begins to glow a bright purple. It stretches up and out, thicker lines tracing through the dirt to meet up with the other rocks’ power on either side. Then like a puzzle it builds up and up, interlocking and sparking blue. They watch it crawl overhead and meet in with itself in the middle in a bright flash of violet.

Noctis jerks. His mouth opens in a silent scream. Blood trickles from his nose in a renewed stream, and now seeps from both ears. Gladio holds him steady and starts to run through the town. Going home will do nothing for Noctis, but Lucrecia has a soft bed and perhaps that will be enough. People, dusty and blood covered, part to let him through, eyes wide and whispers following them.

Spots of blue appear intermittently on the shield, loud thuds sound strangely in this little dome created. Noctis made the base of the shield smaller, leaving a good portion of the town out with Niflheim, all on the behest of his friends—leaving the citizens to crowd together. But now that smaller base made them into a miniature bell jar, amplifying the sounds of Niflheim trying to break in. Each use of force makes Noctis jerk in pain.

“Get out of the way,” Ignis snaps. The group huddled together in their path jump apart, letting them through.

Vincent’s holding the door open. Gladio barges past him straight to the bed room. Someone's donated blankets and pillows, making the Crescent’s bed resemble more of a nest than anything else. Gladio sets Noctis down gently, just not gently enough. He cries out in pain, whimpering pathetically. He gasps through bloody lips, eyes fluttering open just a sliver. His gaze is violet and empty.

“Noct, can you hear me?” Ignis asks, bending over him. His shadow makes Noctis’ eyes practically glow. He curls his hand with this king’s, holding it loosely. “If you can hear me. If you’re able. Squeeze my hand, all right?”

A beat. Ignis’ face gains a stricken expression. It’s easy to guess Noctis can’t or won’t squeeze his hand. Prompto appears, hand on Ignis’ shoulder and a few towels in his grip. The towels are passed around silently, and, together, they work on cleaning Noctis up. Ignis focuses on his dirty fingers, Gladio on the blood from his ears, Prompto on his lips and chin.

Lucrecia stands back, watching them, suddenly exhausted. She’s in out of her depth. It hits her now more than ever, with no Niflheim breathing down their next and Noctis laid out in front of her like a death bed. Gods, she’s referenced death too many times in relation to the king.

Prompto’s whispering to his friend, something inaudible to everyone else. He’s kneeling on the floor, curled over the edge of the bed. He’s not as careful as before about close contact, knowing Noctis can’t even begin to gain mind to heal him the rest of the way. Noctis turns his face towards the blonde, almost like he’s listening, but there’s no real awareness.

“Strife’s raiding houses for ingredients,” Vincent says quietly behind her. “Maybe we can make a potion or an antidote.”

“It won’t do anything,” Ignis says from his spot kneeling. “It’s too late.”

“We can try,” she insists.

Ignis closes his eyes as if he’s the one in pain. “And fail.”

“But we can try.”

* * *

The whole town is mourning already. Every hour that passes gets worse for Noctis.

Lucrecia has no idea how that’s even possible. And, honestly, he doesn’t look any different. He’s still bleeding, he’s still pale. The poison caused discoloration has creeped up to his face, curling around his lips and eyes. It’s traveled to thread through the veins of his hands. Someone took his shoes off, his toes and fingers match in color—a pale blue, almost white. Combine that with the rattling in his chest as he struggles with each breath, says that he’s not getting enough oxygen. And there’s no way of fixing that.

There’s no way of fixing any of this.

The sounds of Niflheim trying to break in follows them through the night. Noctis’ chest moves shallower and slower with every passing second, it seems. No matter how many stashes Cloud raids or what people offer, there’s not enough to make a proper potion. They used the last of it to get Noctis on his feet well enough to just turn around and kill himself in the end.

People have started lighting candles in the purple tinted darkness, leaving them on their window sills or stoops, offering them as gifts to pile at around the Crescent’s door. They flicker in a wind that shouldn’t be there. Flowers appear too, picked from what’s left in the gardens trapped by the bell jar, arranged in baskets or tissue paper like a shrine.

“He would hate this,” Prompto mumbles at one point. Lucrecia checks the time. Two fifty-three. Morning, sort of. He’s got dark smudges under his eyes and some time earlier he started rubbing his wrist. Back and forth. Back and forth. He hasn’t stopped in a good while, leaving his skin red and raw above his leather cuff.

“Hmm?”

He gestures to the open door, through that they can see the candles and flowers slowly accumulating. “Noct would hate all of this. The candles. The flowers. There’s a damn plush chocobo out there.” He sniffs, wiping his nose. “He would say that they shouldn’t be treating him like this. That it’s his fault Niflheim at their doorstep in the first place.” He laughs bitterly. “It’s not. I tell him all the time that none of this is his fault. Iggy and Gladio do it too. He always blames himself for stuff beyond his control.”

“He’s dying for us,” she says.

Prompto hunches over, clasps his hand together. “It’s the least he can do,” he says, a sardonic tilt to his voice like he’s mocking something Noctis has said before. “I love him. I do. But sometimes I hate him so much. For doing shit like this.” He covers his face with both hands, shoulders shaking.

Ignis appears, placing a hand on Prompto’s shoulder silently. Prompto breathes deep, centering himself, then stands. He disappears into the darkness of the house, shadows swallowing him up as he goes to sit at his friend’s side.

They hadn’t turned on any lights. The only source is the orange flames of the candles. Ignis’ face is thrown in sharp relief as the shadows dance along the edges of his jaw. He’s aged ten years in as many hours.

“I’m sorry,” Lucrecia says.

He sighs, slumping. “I know,” he murmurs.

They stay there in silence. No one comes into the house. The white candles littering the ground are joined by a blue one and then a purple. Someone made a bouquet of paper flowers instead of picking them from a garden, the clumsy lines of a child wishes Noctis well. She thought her tears were all used up, but watching Marleen place that bouquet down then guide the toddling Denzel from the house just makes a lump form in her throat and her eyes burn.

Vincent wraps an arm around her shoulders, dragging a chair next to hers. She leans against him, crying as quietly as she can. She can’t help but feel like she’s failed.

They stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, until the early morning hours. Ignis leaves them at one point. Gladio comes out for water and to change out the bowel they’ve been using to clean up the blood. Time ticks forward slowly until the sun is rising and it’s suddenly eight o’clock in the morning.

And the barrier is failing.

Lucrecia stares at it with wide eyes. Before, it was purple with the occasional blue spark. But now the top is stained an unsettling blue. It grows bigger and bigger in the five minutes she spends watching it.

She comes back inside to Prompto whispering “What if Cor’s not even there?” to Gladio.

The Shield shakes his head. “Don’t think about it like that. He’s coming. No one else can.” Without another word he pulls the blonde into a tight, but brief hug. They break away when she tells them the shield is failing.

Prompto freezes. It’s Gladio that barges out of the house to see for himself, only to come back shaking his head.

“She’s right.”

The air in the room Noctis is tucked away in, is heavy and thick. Every breath smells of sickness. His own breathing sounds like death rattles. It’s dark inside, but that does nothing to hide the color of his eyes, barely visible through his lashes.

Lucrecia touches the back of his hand. Before his skin had been hot with fever, his body over working to heal him. Now it’s cold to the touch. She curls her hand around his fingers, wishing to put warmth, life, back into it.

Ignis brushes his fingers through Noctis’ dry hair—he having long stopped sweating. “I heard,” the advisor tells them quietly, words thick and unsteady. “Not long now, I suppose.”

“Can’t you do something?” she all but demands desperately. Prompto flinches at the sudden noise. “That thing you did, when he was healing Prompto. It was magic, right? Can’t you do it again?”

He shakes his head. “No. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. All I did was calm him down. It didn’t heal him. It didn’t make him sleep. It was the last of Noct’s magic that I could wield.” He cradles Noctis’ free hand in both of his and presses them against his forehead. “There’s nothing.”

“Damn it,” Gladio hisses. There’s tears in his eyes, slowly trickling down his cheeks. His hands clench into fists, they quiver like he’s itching to punch something. “Fucking useless,” he spits. At no one. At himself.

The sun shines brighter. The shield stains bluer.

Noctis stares at the ceiling unseeingly, breathes through cracked lips. His cheeks are shiny with tears swirled with the faintest taint of blood. Prompto sobs at the edge of the bed, curled over himself and refusing to look.

Lucrecia looks. Watches and listens to his slowing breathes. It’s long and drawn out, torture for him and for everyone else. The sounds of Niflheim grow distant and stop, as if they can sense the looming death. The sun climbs higher.

Noctis takes a deep breath. It exhales in a soft sigh. His body goes limp.

King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, may he rest in peace.

* * *

The moment Noctis dies. The barrier falls.

Someone starts screaming. Gunshots sound. Lucrecia grabs her sword and goes running off, Vincent at her side. But when they prepare to fight Niflheim, they are instead faced with stragglers of the imperial army and the full might of something else.

The Lucian crest sits proudly over the heart of the man stalking into their town. His expression is grim and somber. His people finish off the rest of the army, killing without remorse and taking Fuhito prisoner. She feels a smug thrill go down her spine at sight of the despicable man being thrown to the ground, boot pressed firmly between his shoulder blades by a formidable woman.

“Where is the king,” the Lucian man demands.

She stares for a moment and then points with a shaking hand. It’s only then she notices the dried blood under her nails. Lucrecia swallows. “You’re too late,” she rasps out as the man continues onward. She hurries to follow him. “No. No! You’re too late. He’s dead.” She chokes on a sob. “The king is dead.”

He says nothing. When he walks through her open door and into the bedroom, he pauses, eyes widening at the sight of the king’s royal retinue gathered around a still, pale figure.

“Marshal,” Prompto whispers, voice wavering. He sits on the floor, pressed as close to the bed as possible, shoulders curled and knees to his chest.

The man steps forward, reaching into his coat to pull out a smoldering orange feather. Ignis gasps at the sight, lurching to his feet without letting go of Noctis. Gladio swears quietly, expression in awe.

“Will it work?” Ignis asks quietly, a careful kind of hope in his voice.

“One way to find out,” the Marshal answers softly.

He carefully takes his king’s hand and wraps it around the feather. He sets them both down over Noctis’ chest firmly, then takes a step back. Everyone holds their breath, watching, waiting. Time passes and nothing happens. The feather’s smoldering fades into a wisp of smoke, the slight glow around it dulling slightly.

Ignis finally breaks down. Bowed over Noctis’ bed, he sobs silently. It makes it so much worse that way. He should scream, rage and shout. He doesn’t. He weeps, clutching at his king.

Gladio collapses against the wall. He slides down into a crumpled heap, heaving heavy breathes. Prompto dips his head back, tears slipping down his cheeks. His mouth moves in a prayer, but it trails off as he starts crying in earnest.

The Marshal drops his head, words on his lips that don’t travel over the sounds then all mourning. Lucrecia covers her mouth to muffle the noise, she force of her crying keeps bouncing her hands away. No. No. This can’t be happening.

“He can’t be,” Ignis chokes out. “He can’t.” He claws at Noctis’ chest, crushing the feather to his king’s chest. “They can’t have him. He’s suppose to be king. He’s supposed to live.”

Ignis tears at the feather mindlessly. The Marshal pulls him away, traps his arms at his side. The advisor slumps in his grip, giving up instead of fighting. He sobs sharply.

“They can’t take him from us,” Gladio whispers angrily.

Foosh! The feather catches fire.

Prompto yelps. Lucrecia shrieks, stumbling back. The feather burns and burns. Fire surges, engulfing the king in its grip. It doesn’t burn the bed, doesn’t catch the wood of the house in its blaze. The fire roars like a coeurl staking claim over its dominion.

With Noctis screaming in the center.

He arches on the bed, clawing at the sheets, head thrown back as he screams. Phoenix Downs don’t work this way. They’re not this painful, they’re not this burning. But, then again, they don’t usually bring someone back who’s been so dead for so long.

It feels like hours, like days. Like seconds. Before the flames disperse—a candle going out from one small whoosh of breath.

Noctis lays there, panting heavily, staring at the ceiling with fading violet eyes. The poison’s receded to curl along his collarbone, sweat breaks out along his hairline. His head lolls, twisting as he moans in pain.

“Noct!” Ignis falls from the Marshal’s hold, scrambling to take his friend’s hand once more. “Oh, Gods. Noct!” he sobs.

The king fights for a smile, and manages it in the end. He smiles at his advisor, eyes half lidded in pain and exhaustion. His fingers twitch in Ignis’ hold, curling slightly as if to squeeze his hand. Ignis’ smile is wobbly and blinding, he brushes back Noctis’ hair and murmurs a thank you against their joined hands. Prompto leaps to sit on the bed at his head, bowed over him, crying moving from grief to relief. Gladio stumbles and falls to his knees on Noctis’ side, folding in half to press his forehead against his king’s hip.

“Monica!” the Marshal roars. Someone answers back distant. He turns to the happy, tearful reunion. “We have to go. He won’t last long without medical attention.”

Lucrecia finds her legs falling from beneath her. She lands in the armchair Gladio dragged in what seems like so long ago.

She is forgotten as the Marshal gathers Noctis in his arms and leaves with him in a rundown truck idling outside. The town surrounds them on three sides, leaving a path out of town. Ignis climbs in the back seat with the king, Gladio and Prompto leap into the bed of the truck. All their attention is on Noctis clinging to life with renewed stubbornness.

The Marshal turns to face her. His eyes are rimmed red, unshed tears fading. He closes his hand in a fist, crosses his arm over his chest, and bows deeply to her and Vincent.

“Thank you,” he says roughly. “I know they will never forget this. May the Six look down upon you favorably.”

He hops into the passenger seat. The formidable woman from before puts the car into gear and speeds out of town, kicking dirt and gravel into the air. Two cars follow behind, the last one a big, hulking thing. The small window in the back shows Fuhito cuffed and muzzled, pissed off and yet there’s nothing he can do about.

The sun reaches its highest point to them watching the cars disappear into the light. Vincent reaches for her hand, she meets him halfway. She shields her eyes against the sun and feels her heart soar.

* * *

Lucrecia nods to her relief as she makes her way home from her post protecting the town from daemons and various brave creatures. She carefully steps over the circle of growth bursting from the seams in the earth from Noctis’ barrier. Where each stone had been buried bright flowers and the greenest trees she’s ever seen sprout. The lines between flowers and ferns overrun the pathways and houses that are in the way. In the beginning, when the plants first started showing up days after His Majesty left, some people tried to cut them down.

They just grew back.

Daemons stopped getting so close to town after that, too. Seemingly repelled by the magic Noctis left behind.

Red bounds out to meet her, barking excitedly. She kneels, cooing at him as she scratches above his tail when presented and then his ears when he starts to nose at her face. Vincent announces his presence by exaggeratedly crunching gravel under his boots.

She smiles at him. “I was almost home.”

He grins back, arm looped through a basket teeming with goods from the little market. “Red heard you coming. Thought I’d come meet you.” He digs into the basket, coming out with a flat envelope. “This got delivered for you. Well, us, but mostly you.”

Lucrecia quirks an eyebrow as he stands, taking the envelope from him. Red presses close, looking for more scratches. Vincent whistles for his attention while she flips the envelope over to unwrap it. She hesitates in surprise when she sees the wax seal keeping it close, an impressive crest pressed into the black then the raised portions are painted over in gold.

“Fancy,” she mutters, heart hummingbird fast in her chest.

Instead are three pictures. She nearly drops them, tears coming to her eyes. Vincent makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat and comes closer, hooking his chin over her shoulder. He laughs softly at what he sees.

The first picture is of Noctis and Prompto, sitting on a pier. The king is fishing, Prompto is asleep on his shoulder. The sun sets behind them, setting everything aglow with soft oranges and reds. Someone set a date and time when they took the picture, the digital numbers in the corner telling them the picture had been taken a few weeks after they left town.

Noctis looks content and whole, millions of miles better than at any point he’d been here. Lucrecia could cry at the sight and, honestly, tears do start trickling down her cheeks. Tears of happiness, relief.

The next picture is of the four of them in a diner. Ignis is laughing. Prompto pouting. Gladio’s ruffling the blonde’s hair while Noctis leans on his elbow, looking at them all with such fondness it aches.

And the last one is Noctis alone, smiling at the camera. His smile is so bright and wide it turns his eyes into half-moons. His hair is ruffled and styled, his skin dark and healthy. His eyes, as much as she can see, are horizon blue and sparkling.

In messy, almost cursive writing ‘Thank you!’ is scrawled in the corner. An arrow points to the edge of the picture. She flips it over.

‘Insomnia will always have a place for you and yours,’ it says in the same handwriting. ‘I owe you so much, there probably aren’t enough years in the universe to settle it all. I hope everything is going okay. If you’re ever by in Lestallum, ask for Iris. She’s Gladio’s little sister. Anything you need, she’s got it. Thank you. -Noct.’

Lucrecia sobs happily, twisting to press her face against her husband’s shoulder. He laughs again and wraps his arms around her, kissing her head. The sun reaches its highest point before they pull away and head home hand in hand, the pictures clutched carefully in her grip.

Noctis smiles brightly up at them. Maybe the future can be bright. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be completely honest. I didn't mean to kill Noct. It just happened! But, hey, I brought him back, so there!


End file.
